


Main Squeeze

by blusher91



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Bottom Carver Hawke, Intergluteal Sex, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Muscles, Praise Kink, Size Kink, Top Dorian Pavus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-19 08:55:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16531415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blusher91/pseuds/blusher91
Summary: Dorian meets Hawke's brother Carver. And also his glutes.





	Main Squeeze

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sorry in advance if this goes a bit off-the-rails in terms of realism, but I was powered almost purely by thirst. So it's probably to be expected.

Dorian hadn’t been particularly thrilled when Trevelyan announced that Hawke and her templar brother would be following them around until they could work out where the south’s entire supply of Grey Wardens had fucked off to en masse.

Not that he didn’t appreciate a mage like Hawke who seemed to have a true talent for killing Qunari, but frankly they already had templars coming out of their ears. They hung around Skyhold glaring at him and generally being a bunch of miserable gits. Being forced to traipse about the south’s miserable, soggy landscape in the constant company of one just seemed cruel.

But then he met Carver. And Carver’s pecs. And his biceps. And Maker that _arse._

Not as intimately as he would have liked of course, but that was something he intended to amend. Because Carver Hawke was an impressive specimen of male beauty. And Dorian was a connoisseur in such things. Carver was a thing of dense, gently rippling muscle, thighs straining against trouser material, arm muscles subtly bouncing as he handled his sword. And what a sword. So big he had to grip it with both hands, causing his whole body to tauten as he wielded it.

Dorian had almost taken an errant firebolt in the face after he became distracted by the way the templar’s clothes seemed to strain with the effort of keeping his body contained inside material and leather. Stitches stretched, buttons warped. It was too easy to imagine them giving completely.

“Watch it, mage.”

The growl made him start, as he was shoved to one side. He looked up demurely into Carver’s handsome, scowling face. Frankly, he never seemed to stop scowling. It was a somewhat jarring contrast to his sister’s serene, easy smile. They weren’t much alike in that respect.

“Whoops.” Dorian fingered the slightly singed material on his left arm. “That came out of nowhere.”

Carver rolled his blue eyes and turned his back on him. Dorian took the opportunity to enjoy the generous curve of his gluteal muscles. But he resolved to try and keep his eyes inside his head until they weren’t fighting irate mages in a field. As delightful as Carver Hawke’s posterior was, it probably wasn’t worth being disintegrated over. Probably.

Predictably, it began to rain profusely about halfway through the day and they were forced to make a squelchy run for a nearby barn. They piled in, flinging their weapons down and shaking the water out of their hair and clothes. Dorian only had a chance to momentarily mourn the state of his boots when he caught sight of the state of their resident templar and suddenly had a new appreciation for the south’s dismal weather. That material really did… cling. He believed it was Trevelyan who had advised Carver not to wear his templar armour out in the field to avoid drawing unnecessary attention. He _really_ needed to thank her later.

He cocked his head to the left as Carver lifted his arms to unstrap his sword from his back. His vest crept up a few inches, revealing a glimpse of wiry black hair beneath his navel. He heard a pointed cough. Dorian glanced back up to find Carver’s irritated eyes on him. Dorian looked back at him unabashedly. Carver’s eyes seemed to narrow even further, and he looked away with a disdainful scoff. Dorian shook his head. _Fereldans._

He watched a faint tinge of pink creep into Carver’s cheeks and neck. He knew Dorian was still watching him. There was something both sweet and intensely arousing about him submitting so easily to Dorian’s frankly lecherous staring. He didn’t seem like the kind of person who would be reticent to confront someone who was doing something he didn’t like. Especially a mage. Especially a Tevinter mage. Who he had already made very clear he trusted about as much as he trusted the renegade mages who had almost blown them up that afternoon.

Dorian sucked the rainwater off of his thumb and leant back against a beam. Carver looked up again, the same accusatory scowl on his face that never seemed to shift. “What are you looking at, mage?”

His voice was a quiet enough growl that the rest of the company didn’t hear. It sent a delicious shiver of electricity up Dorian’s spine. “Am I making you uneasy, _templar_?” Dorian replied, practically fluttering his eyelashes at him.

Carver’s lip curled. He looked away and folded his arms. The motion had the immediate effect of tautening his arms and making the generous swell of his pectoral muscles bulge upwards. It was almost _obscene_. Dorian didn’t think he had ever been so turned on by someone fully dressed before. The desire to debauch the Champion of Kirkwall’s younger brother was becoming firmly centred in his mind. He didn’t think he’d be able to think straight until he got his hands on that body.

Luckily, he happened to be quite good at getting what he wanted.

 

He’d never understand southerners’ attachment to these places.

Dorian stepped gingerly through the door of Skyhold’s tavern. It was almost full and humming with contented chatter and the clinking of tankards and plates. He hadn’t been in there more than twice since arriving at Skyhold and he was fine with that. The last thing he felt like doing at the end of the day was drink lukewarm ale while the entire tavern gawked at him. Probably waiting for him to sacrifice a goat in the name of Tevinter or the Black Divine or something.

But he was here with a purpose and he was quite certain this would be the ideal hunting ground for a certain sullen Fereldan. And one thing he could at least appreciate was the alcohol. And to that end, he bought himself a generous tankard of ale and found an empty table (with very little difficulty, given how the tavern patrons tended to uneasily scatter when he approached).

He took a swig of ale and then jumped as someone fell heavily into the seat opposite him without ceremony. Carver glared at him and put his tankard down with unnecessary force. Dorian raised his eyebrows. He certainly hadn’t expected it to be quite so easy. It was almost a disappointment to be denied the hunt.

“One day the wind is going to change, and your face will be stuck like that,” he remarked.

Carver’s frown didn’t lessen. He had changed out of his fighting gear and was wearing a clean, plain tunic with long sleeves. It frankly seemed like a crime to hide those arms. Dorian eyed the tell-tale bulge under the crisp material.

“What’s your problem with me, mage?” It was a testament to Dorian’s attraction that even Carver’s broad, surly Fereldan accent didn’t lessen his desire.

Dorian snorted. “You Fereldans are terribly touchy, aren’t you?”

Carver’s cheeks flushed. “Why do you keep staring at me? Do you have a problem with templars? You Tevinters usually do.”

“You’ve met many Tevinters then?” Dorian quipped.

Carver scoffed and mumbled something under his breath. He took a huffy mouthful of ale and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. Dorian watched a trickle of liquid dribble down from the corner of Carver’s mouth and rest on the edge of his jaw. He was almost jealous of that droplet of ale.

“I don’t have a problem with templars, Carver,” Dorian said drolly. Carver jumped at the usage of his first name. “My life is about 90% templars now. The other 10% is demons.”

“All mages have a problem with templars,” Carver retorted. “I’ve never met one who didn’t.”

Dorian leant forward in his seat, fixing Carver with a look. “Carver, do you not like being watched?” He lowered his voice a decibel. “Do you not like _me_ watching you?”

Carver went, if possible, redder. He sat back in his seat. For once, he didn’t have that dark, sullen look on his face. “What—” He wetted his lips, eyes rapidly darting away from and then back to Dorian’s face. “I mean… What for? What do you want?”

Dorian shrugged. “I was admiring you. If you’d like me to stop, I will of course.”

Carver looked confused and then annoyed. “Admiring?” He sounded dubious. “I didn’t think I’d be your… ah, type.”

It was Dorian’s turn to scoff. “You know my type, do you? Very presumptuous.”

“Mages are stuck-up,” Carver said petulantly. “They never want a real man.”

Dorian looked at him incredulously. “Varric was right. You do have a complex.”

The scowl returned to Carver’s face. “Then what exactly do you want?”

Dorian leant towards him. “You want me to be specific?” He gave a mock glance around. “We might scandalise the other patrons.” Dorian couldn’t help a slight leer.

Carver’s pupils dilated. He shifted in his seat. “Pervert mage,” he grumbled. “Okay. Fine. Let’s go.”

He stood up.

Dorian stared at him. “This is you propositioning me, is it?” He gave a disgusted scoff. “Southerners.”

Carver stared at him pointedly. “Are you coming or not?”

Dorian’s cock twinged. He got up from the table almost in a trance and followed the heavy tread of Carver’s boots across the Tavern floor to the door.

 

They ended up in Dorian’s room. After a brief argument about where they were going (and Dorian almost losing the remainder of his fraying self-control completely in the face of the way Carver’s muscles jiggled when he jerked his arms around), Carver had finally relented.

Dorian shoved him through his door and slammed it behind them. He spun around to look at Carver, feeling like the arousal that had been building in a steady, throbbing wave all day had boiled over with sudden and overwhelming speed. He pushed Carver into the wall and kissed him.

Dorian’s eyelashes fluttered as he was pressed against firm, ample muscle. He was taller than Carver and used it to his advantage to take control. Carver was enthusiastic, but decidedly unpolished and quickly defered to Dorian’s superior technique.

Dorian leant back to look at him. His arms were pressed into the wall either side of Carver and their bodies were flush, so close he felt like he could feel every ridge and bulge of Carver’s incredible figure. He pinned his groin against Carver’s and watched with a grin as the younger man threw his head back with a soft groan.

“Don’t tease me, Tevinter.”

Dorian leant forward and pressed his mouth to Carver’s ear. He shivered. “Doesn’t that turn you on, templar? Isn’t that what you want? To be at a Tevinter mage’s mercy?”

Carver bucked his hips against him and it was Dorian’s turn to groan. “I’m not at your mercy.” The defiance in his voice was somewhat undermined by his breathlessness.

Dorian ran his hands over Carver’s chest. He cupped the abundant curve of his pectoral muscles and squeezed. Carver jolted. “You’re right. How could you be? All this muscle and bulk. You could snap a man in half.”

Carver’s eyes became hazy. His lips parted. Dorian rubbed his hands under the collar of Carver’s tunic and stroked along his collarbones. Carver tried vainly to rub his hips against Dorian’s. Dorian tutted and pushed him back.

“Now, now. Patience, sweet thing.” He tugged at Carver’s tunic and he obediently lifted his arms. Dorian pulled it off of him and dropped it to the floor.

Carver’s body was more than Dorian had even imagined. It was like he had been carved from _marble_. His pectorals were obscenely large, adorned with dark nipples rapidly hardening. Rough, dark hair trailed from his naval to the band of his trousers. Carver was beginning to strain against the material, but Dorian carefully ignored it.

“You are something.” Dorian’s voice was heated. He rolled one of Carver’s excited nipples under his fingers.

Carver panted. “Maker… Maker. Dorian—”

Dorian pulled open the buttons on the front of Carver’s trousers. “I knew I’d get you to “Dorian” eventually.”

Carver allowed Dorian to pull them down his thighs, gasping softly as the band caught momentarily on his erection. He stepped out of them and hastily yanked off of his boots. Dorian could hardly bear having his own clothes on any longer. Stepping back from Carver (and earning himself a displeased grumble in the process), he decided to divest himself of a few layers.

“Go and kneel on the bed.”

Carver glared at the order, but naturally obeyed. Now clad just in his underwear, he knelt on Dorian’s bed, knees apart in a decidedly petulant manner. His arms were folded across his chest again.

“Do you have any idea what that does to your tits?” Dorian remarked. “It’s obscene. You’re almost overflowing.”

Carver flushed dark red. “Maker, you’re sick. They are not _tits_.”

Dorian smirked at him. “And your _arse._ Fuck, how do you keep your templar buddies off you at night? They probably all fall asleep wishing they were tending to you, sweetness.”

Carver glared at him and worried his lip. The insistent push of his cock against cotton made it clear that Dorian’s words were getting to the point. Right to it.

Dorian loosened up the buttons on his trousers and let the fly fall open in what he knew was a gauchely lewd display. But by the Void, Carver Hawke made him feel _lewd._

“Wait, _you_ don’t wear underwear?” Carver said in disbelief. “The uppity Tevinter goes without?”

“Ruins the line of my clothes,” Dorian said, approaching him. “Lay down.”

Carver turned to lie on his stomach.

Dorian clicked his tongue. “Other way, dearest.”

Carver sent him a suspicious look but slowly moved to obey. Dorian hooked his fingers under the band of Carver’s underthing and tugged it slowly, _slowly_ down. The templar arched his back as the material caught on his cock and was then firmly pulled away. With an almost endearing bounce, Carver’s manhood jumped free. Compared to the rest of him, it was actually very modestly sized. Dorian gave a wicked smile and yanked the knickers off completely.

Carver let his legs splay open, giving Dorian an eyeful. His thighs were thick and became even wider when pressed against the bed. Dorian massaged them gently with his hands. Carver gave a soft, decidedly desperate groan and jerked his hips upwards. His cock and balls gave a mournful throb for contact.

“Tease. Fucking. _Mage.”_ Carver was panting, his finger furling and unfurling on the bedsheets.

Dorian didn’t touch Carver’s cock. Instead he touched his own, giving it an appreciative squeeze as he worked it out of his trousers. Carver feasted his eyes on every revealed inch like a starving man. He made a jerky move forward and then seemed to think better of it and settled back sulkily on the bed.

“Now, now. Templars are supposed to be known for their self-control. Otherwise, you’d be offering yourself up to every mage you came across, wouldn’t you? I doubt you could help yourself.”

Dorian smiled wickedly at Carver’s outraged expression, which was beautifully undermined by how obviously turned on he was by Dorian’s teasing. His cock was leaking precum.

Dorian went to his dresser and rummaged in a wooden box of oils and balms.

Behind him, Carver let out an impatient huff. “Hurry up!”

Dorian snorted. “Bossy, aren’t you?”

He selected a vial and turned back to his demanding quarry. _Oh, Maker_.

Dorian had to stop for a moment to appreciate the sight. Carver was resting on his elbows, cock unabashedly erect and body flushed and tense. Almost unconsciously, Carver’s thighs parted further. He looked at him with hooded, pleading eyes.

Dorian opened the vial and let the contents ooze slickly onto his fingers. He liked this one for its subtle heating properties and a certain herbal extract in it that relaxed muscles. It was ever useful. And ridiculously expensive to import from Minrathous (though worth it, in his humble opinion).

“If you don’t hurry up and…” Carver spoke through gritted teeth.

Dorian knelt in front of him. “And what?” He poured a liberal amount of thick oil on his fingers and stoppered the bottle. “What would you like me to do to you, Carver?”

Carver mumbled something inaudible and eyed the substance on Dorian’s fingers. “Just… get on with it.”

Dorian smirked. “With pleasure.” He made a spinning motion with his finger.

Carver rolled his eyes and onto his front. Dorian gave himself a moment to enjoy the generous curve of his arse. Beneath him, Carver spread his legs and curved his back. It was almost like he was _presenting_. Not that Dorian would ever say that out loud to him.

He opened the oil again and coated his fingers, letting some of it drip languidly down onto Carver’s skin.

Carver fidgeted and shot him an impatient look over his shoulder. “Get on with it.”

“What’s the magic word?” Dorian gently spread Carver’s buttocks and rubbed his fingers between them. He heard Carver gasp when his fingers passed over his hole. “Rude boys don’t get anything.”

Carver huffed. “ _Please_.”

Dorian chuckled and pressed his fingers gently inside Carver’s hole. It flexed excitedly against him and Carver did too. Dorian extracted his fingers and smeared some more oil onto them, this time applying it to himself. He shimmied his trousers down further, letting his cock stand fully to attention.

Carver looked over his shoulder and Dorian saw the expression of mingled surprise and lust on his face as he saw Dorian’s manhood. “You’re…”

“Don’t worry your pretty head.” Dorian gasped as he rubbed the lubricant up and down his straining cock. “I’ll be gentle.” He was only half teasing.

He let his cock spring free of his hand and divested himself of the oil. He took his cock in hand and rubbed it along the swell of Carver’s arse. Carver pushed himself back, lifting himself off the bed to rub into Dorian’s erection. He was making desperate, breathy sounds.

“Be a good boy.” Dorian knew his voice sounded taut. He squeezed a handful of glute muscle in each hand and lined up his cock with them.

In one smooth movement, he slid his cock between Carver’s buttocks and used his hands to squeeze them together.

“Maker!” Dorian hissed, pressing them together tighter. The pressure. Was. _Something_.

Carver moaned underneath him, pushing against him. Dorian adjusted his grip on Carver’s arse and began to thrust his cock with as much patience and control as he could manage. He saw a pearl of precum drip down from Carver.

“Maker, you’re so excited for me.” His voice was slightly strangled from the tightness around his cock. “Your body was made for this. You’re made for this.”

Carver dropped his head down and made a choked out a breath of air. “Dorian… Oh, Maker.”

“What do you want, sweet thing?” Dorian panted. “Do you want me to spill all over your pretty back? Spill it all over you?”

Carver whimpered. “No, please.” His voice was strangled. “Need you inside me. Need to cum— _Ugh_. _Please_.”

Dorian moaned his agreement. Carver was rubbing himself against the bed, bucking up into Dorian with every upward movement. Dorian thought he could get dangerously close to coming with just Carver’s arse muscles around him and the sight of him trying fruitlessly to make love to the bed underneath him.

He let go of Carver’s arse and let his cock bounce free. The loss of the pressure was a shame but being inside Carver was an even better prospect. The young templar writhed impatiently underneath him. One of his hands moved instinctively to touch himself.

Dorian gave him a gentle slap on his thigh. “Now, now. None of that.”

Carver looked back at him with a glare but retracted his hand.

Smirking at Carver’s obedience, Dorian pressed the crown of his cock against Carver’s hole. He always produced quite a lot of precum and tonight was no different. It dripped over Carver’s entrance and trickled down his thighs.

“Ready?”

“Yes,” Carver said hoarsely.

Dorian pushed inside him. Pleasure rapidly rushed through his cock and groin. Carver was tight and perfect.

“Fuck, Carver,” he groaned. “You are… _precious_.”

Dorian spoke disjointedly as he pushed himself in to the hilt. Carver’s back arched, his body tautening as he accommodated Dorian’s not inconsiderable length. He paused to allow him to adjust, but Carver made a fragile whine underneath him.

“Dorian.” His ravaged voice made things, if possible, even more erotic. “Dorian, please move. I can’t take it.”

Neither could Dorian frankly. With a nod that he forgot Carver wouldn’t be able to see, he began to move. And their bodies were in sync. He pulled Carver’s hips up, so he was flush against him and fucked him like Carver needed to be fucked.

“That’s right, pretty thing,” Dorian said in a taut, breathless voice. “You’re taking me so beautifully. You need a mage to give you what you need.”

“Fuck, Carver moaned, tossing his head to the side. “I need it.”

Dorian cooed at him. “Oh, precious, you’ll have it. I promise. I’ll fill you up, leave you dripping with it. Make you sore with my cock. So you remember you were made for this, Carver.”

Carver sobbed and dropped his head down. His muscles were contracting and loosening, his body was slick with sweat. Dorian pulled his hips up.

“You want to be a good boy and come just with my cock inside you, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Carver whimpered.

“You’re such a good boy. Taking my cock so prettily. You were built to take cock up that gorgeous arse of yours, weren’t you?”

“Yes!”

Carver writhed and bucked against Dorian, signalling that Dorian had hit his prostate dead on. He angled himself to hit it again and Carver cried out in what sounded like agonised delirium.

“Dorian!” He almost _screamed_.

“Fuck.” Dorian closed his eyes and tilted his head back. He was so close to spending, he was worried just one tickle was going to make him lose it completely.

He felt Carver’s orgasm before he heard it. The sheer, unbelievable pressure suddenly on his cock was quite the giveaway. His mouth fell open and his eyes felt like they might roll back in his head from the unbearable ( _fucking amazing_ ) squeeze.

Carver moaned and shivered beneath him. He was coming.

“Maker!” Dorian was coming.

He spilt what felt like so much cum as to possibly break several obscenity laws. It rushed hotly inside of Carver and caused him to moan again and squirm underneath him.

Dorian rode out his orgasm in a series of increasingly languid thrusts, as the crest of his climax ebbed. He let out a long, harsh breath and stopped. Carver laid flat against the bed and didn’t move.

Carefully, Dorian pulled out. He knew he produced a lot of seed at the best of times, but tonight he seemed to have accidentally outdone himself. It was spilling out of Carver with obscene abandon. Carver moved with difficulty to prop up his torso.

He looked back at Dorian with a face that was so beautifully debauched, flushed and _wrecked_ that Dorian wished he could capture the look forever. Carver gave him a small, bleary smile. The first one he had ever seen on his face.

“Acceptable fuck.”

Dorian rolled his eyes good-naturedly. “From you I’ll take that as high praise.”

He clambered up the bed and collapsed next to him. Carver visibly tensed but didn’t move away.

He eyed Dorian warily. “You’re not a cuddler, are you?” His voice was raw and thick. There was a warm, soft expression in his eyes that Dorian assumed was his “delightfully fucked-out” expression.

“Not when my prospective cuddling partner is covered in my semen, no.” Dorian cocked an eyebrow at him. “But if my prospective cuddling partner allows me to clean him and fetch him some clean clothes and gets into my bed, then… yes. I can be persuaded.”

Carver looked at him appraisingly. Dorian somewhat expected him to rebuff him in the name of his dented templar pride and stomp off to find something to kill to properly restore it.

Carver grumbled. “Well, if it’s that important to you.”

Dorian grinned and went to fetch the soap and water.


End file.
